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"How couldn't I?" replies he. "Come; let us follow it up to the bitter end." "Very pretty indeed, and quite good taste and that. She's a Mrs. Lennox, and her husband is our master of the hounds. She is always quite correct in the matter of clothes." There is an awful reservation in her Grace's tone, which is quite lost upon Mona. "But she is by no means little in her own opinion, and in fact rather prides herself upon her—er—form generally," concludes the duchess, so far at a loss for a word as to be obliged to fall back upon slang. "When he held the pistol to your forehead, didn't you scream then?" asks Violet..
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An old crone is sitting over a turf fire that glows and burns dimly in its subdued fashion. Hanging over it is a three-legged pot, in which boil the "praties" for the "boys'" dinners, who will be coming home presently from their work. "Will not, you mean!" "Is it? I always heard it was rather a jolly sort of little place, once you got into it—well." Mona, turning, confronts the frightened group in the corner, both men and women, with a face changed and aged by grief and indignation..
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